Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  Speaking in broken but intelligible Spanish, the Mescalero said, ʺWalk with care.

  Do not fight Broken Leg. Earth is weak over caves.ʺ With that, the ugly Lipan yanked her behind him and started back to where their horses were tethered.

  Biting her lip against the pain in her sprained leg, she cast a glance back at Night Wind. Hoarse Bark walked beside him, continuing their earlier conversation in a low voice, neither touching him nor expecting any reply. The bold raider, leader of these dangerous renegades, walked in stony silence like a somnambulist, his eyes fixed unseeing on some distant point. Lazarus returned from the dead could not have had eyes filled with more torment.

  Chapter 10

  Santa Fe

  Bone weary and covered with grime, Conal Quinn rode into Santa Fe. He had just spent three stinking weeks combing every filthy scorpion‐infested mountain range north to south, every trail or pass the renegades were known to use. The expedition had been in vain. Now he understood how that bastard had received his name. He had vanished like the night wind at a hot, still desert sunrise.

  Conal reached one hand to the leather tunic he wore, sensing rather than feeling the letter from the renegade. He had carried it with him when he set out in search of Orlena. His beautiful, innocent butterfly was suffering the abuse and revenge of that filthy savage. Part of him longed to rescue her and take her back to civilization where she could forget the shame she must surely have endured.

  Yet another part of him feared he might find a woman so broken in body and spirit that death would be a welcome respite. He had steeled himself to kill her quickly if necessary. He forced from his mind the possibility that the savageʹs boast might come true. His Orlena, proud and independent, would never willingly submit to a half‐casteʹs touch. Yet the letter seemed to burn through his very skin with its hateful message.

  ʹʹI will kill you, Night Wind, mongrel cur. And you will die so slowly, you will beg me for the mercy of death as no prisoner of the Holy Office ever did!ʺ he swore beneath his breath as he dismounted in front of the governorʹs palace.

  Santiago had watched the weary, filthy line of soldiers ride in without his sister, and his spirits had plummeted. He had been so sure that his father would find her! He must, for the boy could not bear to live with his guilt.

  Conal watched the freckled face of his son crumple with hopelessness as he walked toward the door. ʺWe could find no trace in any direction,ʺ he said tonelessly.

  ʺIf only I had not given her my clothes. It was me they wanted, not my sister!ʺ

  His voice caught on a sob, but he forced himself to squelch such childishness. He was a man now, even if his father had refused to let him accompany the soldiers on the mission.

  Conal sighed. He had been hard on the boy the morning he learned of the escapade, when Orlena had not returned from the market. But then Night Windʹs message had been delivered and he realized the intent of his enemy. Thank all the Saints he had not captured Santiago!

  ʺYou are not to blame. If not your clothes, she would have stolen some servantʹs rags just to gain her own way. Orlena was always willful,ʺ Conal said to the boy.

  ʺDo not speak of her in past tenseas if she were dead. They can ransom her, can they not?ʺ

  ʺHas any message come while I was away?ʺ Conal asked his son as they walked into the cool, dark interior of the palace. He had not told Santiago of the letter he had received the day after Orlenaʹs abduction.

  ʺNo, none,ʺ the youth replied sorrowfully. ʺDoes that mean . . . that she is truly dead?ʺ he forced himself to ask.

  Conalʹs face darkened and his eyes narrowed. He ushered the boy into his library off the main sala, away from the curious ears of the servants. Taking Santiago firmly by the shoulders, he said, ʺYou have spent months in New Spain now.

  You have heard what captives of the savages must endure. Would you wish her alive in such circumstances?ʺ

  The brutal question stunned the boy, leaving him speechless with horror. He turned from his fatherʹs stony gaze and walked over to the courtyard window. ʺI will never give her up. I will search until I find her, or until I am dead, too. You will not stop me this time, Papa. I will gowith you or without you!ʺ

  Conal faced his son, the pride of his life, and saw an implacable stranger.

  ʺPerhaps it was wrong of me to keep you here,ʺ he replied wearily. ʺSend Sergeant Ruiz in to me. I will have a reward posted in every presidio and villa from California to the Mississippi River, enough to tempt St. Peter himself to betray the Night Wind. Then we will ride out once moretogether.ʺ

  Santiago nodded tightly and turned to do his fatherʹs bidding.

  Quick Slayer watched Night Windʹs woman from his hiding place behind some large rocks near the spring. She was filling water skins with several of the other women. Ever since Night Wind had brought her to their camp he had desired her. He watched the sun gild her dark golden hair with burnished splendor.

  Even her skin, at first reddened and burned, now glowed a soft golden color.

  Pulling at his groin to ease its ache, he considered how he could wrest her from his hated enemy.

  Night Wind guarded her each night, taking her to his blankets in the privacy of the sturdy wickiup She Who Dreams had helped the captive construct. During the day, she was always in the meddlesome old womanʹs company or with other of the younger women, doing camp chores. For a slave, she was treated far too well, he thoughtuntil he considered how such exotic beauty could inflame a man, especially one with white blood in his own veins. Small wonder Night Wind protected her!

  Orlena had spent the days since their ordeal in the caves steeped in misery. No one would explain Night Windʹs bizarre behavior to her. He would not speak of it, and Hoarse Bark seemed to exude hate toward her ever since the incident. The bold Apache renegade Night Wind was human after allafraid of the dark! Small wonder his teasing tongue and insolent manner had turned to stony silence. Yet she felt perversely bereft, actually missing their arguments and the coiled sexual tension that had radiated between them like summer lightning.

  What is wrong with me? The strain of this hellish captivity is unhinging my mind!

  When Sweet Rain and Little Doe left the stream, Orlena dawdled, heedless of being alone. Since they, like everyone else, seemed angered with her, she was glad to be quit of their company. Not that she entertained any more foolish ideas about running away. Deep in the fastness of the Guadalupe Mountains, surrounded by deserts and fearful underground caverns, she knew escape to be futile. Orlena held fast to the dream that Conal would yet rescue her. For now, it was her only hope.

  Orlena stood up, and swung the two heavy water skins as expertly as any Apache woman, one to each side of her shoulders on their wooden yoke. After a single halting step, she heard a crunch of gravel from the rise over the hill.

  Earlier Orlena had felt an eerie sensation, as if someone watched her. Quickly her golden eyes darted across the jagged horizon. The stream was strewn with boulders and a trail twisted downward toward their camp. Now the other women had walked out of hearing. She was alone. Or, was she?

  Swallowing the sudden bile of fear, she squared her shoulders beneath their heavy burden and began to walk toward the trail.

  When Night Wind saw Sweet Rain talking with She Who Dreams, he looked about for Orlena. She had not returned with the other water gatherers. Swearing, he stalked over to the girl. After bowing politely to She Who Dreams, he asked, ʺWhere did Orlena go? She is not in camp.ʺ

  Sweet Rainʹs pretty round face puckered with a frown. ʺThat one still sits lazing upstream.ʺ Secretly, she had been glad when her companions agreed to leave the white woman alone. They had all hurried back to camp.

  An oath escaped Night Wind as he turned toward the path along the twisty stream. He began to run, some instinct urging him to do so. ʺSurely she would never be so foolish as to try an escape again?ʺ he muttered to himself. But that was not his true fear.

  When he crested the hill and turned the b
end where the stream burbled, he saw what he had dreaded. ʺQuick Slayer! You die for this!ʺ His cry rang out as he leaped toward the sandy bank where the big Lipan wrestled with Orlena. She was bloody and bruised, and had obviously fought valiantly. Her doeskin skirt had been pulled up, baring her long, silky legs to the cool evening air as she thrashed and kicked in vain, unable to scream because her assailantʹs meaty hand covered her mouth.

  Hearing his enemy, Quick Slayer shoved the girl roughly aside, nearly pushing her into the water in his haste to free his knife. Just as he did so, Night Wind was on him and they rolled across the soft, sandy ground, each straining for an advantage, locked in a struggle to the death.

  Orlena sat up by the waterʹs edge, dazed and breathless. Her body burned with scratches and abrasions, but she forgot her own pain, watching transfixed as Night Wind and Quick Slayer fought. In a matter of moments a small group of Apache, mostly men, had gathered. Obviously they had followed Night Wind after he ran to find his captive.

  Gathering her torn clothing protectively about her, Orlena stood up and looked across the clearing to White Crane. Surely he would help his son‐in‐law? But no one moved to intervene as the two antagonists broke apart and rolled to their feet, knives gleaming evilly in the twilight.

  ʺI challenge the Night Wind for his yellow‐haired slave,ʺ Quick Slayer said loudly.

  Night Wind could hear Orlenaʹs hissed intake of breath. Quick Slayerʹs intent was clear, even though she understood but a few words of the Lipan dialect. ʺI told you never to wander about alone,ʺ he ground out in Spanish without taking his eyes off Quick Slayerʹs knife. Then he replied to his adversary in Lipan, ʺNight Wind accepts your challenge. Prepare to die for touching my woman.ʺ

  With that he crouched low and waited.

  Quick Slayer was brawny and large, but surprisingly agile in spite of his size. His knife arced up and slashed at Night Windʹs throat, coming heart‐stoppingly close before his foe deflected the blow. They circled each other, like a bear and a cougar, Night Wind still in the defensive, crouched position, seeming to wait for the heavier man to spend his energy uselessly. He parried all of Quick Slayerʹs slashing attempts at a swift kill, but as the fight continued, he received several superficial cuts that began to bleed freely. Ignoring them, Night Wind began to grow more aggressive, watching for openings, drawing blood from his enemy.

  As he weaved and parried with the grace of a cat, Night Wind taunted the big man.

  ʺYou have always hated me. This is your chance. Why do you not end it as you have often boasted you would?ʺ

  ʺI will kill you, white man, son of Blue Robes and their foolish gods! Then I will possess your slave.ʺ Even as he spoke, Quick Slayer again feinted low and then arched high with his knife.

  But Night Wind deflected the thrust with his own blade while his left hand snaked out with blurring speed to seize his foeʹs wrist. With the knives locked high above their heads, they strained, each unable to break free until Night Windʹs yank on Quick Slayerʹs arm sent them both tumbling to the earth, where they again rolled in the sand. Now it caked to their sweat‐and‐blood‐slicked bodies.

  Quick Slayerʹs blade came dangerously close to Night Windʹs throat, but by sheer strength he forced the other manʹs hand back. They remained in a stalemate of rolling twists, each unable to finish the other until Quick Slayer suddenly broke free and reached out with his left hand to splash a clump of wet sand from the stream into Night Windʹs face.

  Night Wind felt the sting of gritty sand in his eyes and was momentarily blinded.

  Just as quickly, the sharp agony of Quick Slayerʹs blade sliced into his chest.

  Opening eyes blurred with tears, he focused on Quick Slayerʹs knife as he withdrew it and again raised it, this time to plunge into Night Windʹs throat.

  Orlena watched Quick Slayer blind Night Wind and deal what looked to be a killing blow, but before she could do more than cry out and reach for a small rock, White Crane and Hoarse Bark restrained her.

  ʺHe will not be dishonored by a white woman,ʺ the Mescalero gritted out.

  Night Wind heard Orlenaʹs scream as the blade neared his throat, but he concentrated on moving his own knife, an incredibly painful task with the puncture wound in his chest. Even through his sand‐blurred eyes, he could see that Quick Slayerʹs total attention was on the final kill. His whole lower abdomen was exposed as he raised his body over Night Wind.

  Night Windʹs knife gutted the Lipan, slashing from left to right, then ripping upward toward the heart. As he dodged the blade aimed at his throat, Night Wind could hear Quick Slayerʹs grunt of surprise. Still not relinquishing his impaling hold on Quick Slayer, Night Wind rolled up over the dying man. The pain in his chest was suffocating him and a red haze was forming behind his eyes, but he succeeded in pinning Quick Slayer to the earth. The larger man choked on his own blood in a long, slow death rattle. Night Wind prayed to the Child of the Water that he could hold on long enough to see Quick Slayer die.

  His prayer was answered. Then he felt Orlenaʹs soft, small hands on him and heard her sobbing voice call his name in Spanish. Hoarse Bark caught him as he fell. Everything went black.

  ʺDo not let her tend him, old woman. She will kill him, even if Quick Slayerʹs thrust fails,ʺ Hoarse Bark said to She Who Dreams.

  Orlena stood at the door of the wickiup watching the two argue. Although she could not understand their words, she knew Night Windʹs Mescalero friend hated and mistrusted her ever since the incident in the cave. ʺNow I am doubly blamed because that brute attacked me and Night Wind had to fight him.ʺ She sighed and waited to see what She Who Dreams would do. Sweet Rain and several unmarried maidens who hoped to win Night Windʹs attention had volunteered to nurse him.

  ʺI am Night Windʹs woman. It is for me he fought. I have the right to care for him,ʺ she said boldly to She Who Dreams, interrupting Hoarse Barkʹs diatribe.

  ʺYou are his slave. He captured you. Much Spanish pride. Why now you want to tend Night Wind?ʺ She Who Dreamsʹ shrewd black eyes measured Orlena.

  She felt herself flush beneath the scrutiny of Hoarse Bark and She Who Dreams, one hostile, the other directly curious, not judging but waiting for a reply.

  ʺII feel a debt. He saved me from that terrible savfrom Quick Slayer.ʺ She could not stop her shudder of revulsion at the memory of the big, brutish Apache.

  She Who Dreams smiled sadly, recalling how Slim Reed had shared Orlenaʹs feelings about both men. ʺYou do what I show. We make Night Wind strong again.ʺ With that, Hoarse Bark was dismissed.

  He felt a surge of fury, but realized how useless it was to show his anger among these Lipan who gave their medicine woman a great amount of power. He stalked off after hissing at Orlena, ʺIf he dies, you die.ʺ

  ʺHoarse Bark hates me because I tried to escape. Before that he did notʺ

  She Who Dreams interrupted Orlena. ʺBrothersHoarse Bark and Night Wind.

  They know same pain, come from same place.ʺ

  ʺThey are both scarred, yet none of the other men here are,ʺ Orlena said consideringly as she followed She Who Dreams to her medicine pouch in the wickiup. ʺWhere did they come from? You must know.ʺ

  ʺIf Night Wind wish, he tell you,ʺ was all the old woman would say as she began to mix an herbal poultice to prevent an infection from developing in Night Windʹs wound.

  ʺGet cool water from creek. Wash Night Wind. Too much heat in body bad.

  Kills,ʺ she said as her busy hands worked with a mortar and pestle.

  Orlena examined Night Windʹs still, pale figure lying on the pallet. He did not feel feverish yet. ʺHow do you?ʺ She broke off the question, knowing it to be useless. The medicine woman seemed to know everything. Did she indeed have visions that foretold the future? Orlena grabbed a large waterskin and ran to the stream to fill it.

  As darkness fell, Orlena became frightened, watching Night Windʹs unconscious body in the flickering light from the fire. He had indeed developed a fever. What if he died? Fo
r all the times she had cursed him and wished him dead, the very real prospect now filled her with dread. She would be alone, surrounded by enemies, without the protection of the one man in this wilderness who had actual contact with civilization. Yet, as she softly sponged his body with cool water, Orlena knew her feelings were not as simple as choosing the lesser evil between two unthinkable alternatives. The coiled tension of Night Windʹs body was relaxed by unconsciousness now. Those piercing, mocking green eyes were closed. She touched his face and felt the rasp of beard on his cheek, and was reminded of his white blood. Night Wind. Had the Franciscans given him another name? What of his Spanish father?

  Her confused thoughts were interrupted when She Who Dreams entered the wickiup with a steaming bowl of dark, pungent liquid. ʺThis cure fever,ʺ she said without preamble as she indicated to Orlena that she should feed the liquid to the unconscious man with a crude spoon made from bone.

  ʺWhat is it?ʺ she asked. The oddly familiar fragrance was not nearly so unpleasant‐smelling as the poultice on his chest.

  ʺBark of cherry tree. Boil in water,ʺ She Who Dreams explained as she piled thick pelts like pillows behind Night Windʹs back, propping him up.

  Obediently, Orlena spooned the cherry bark infusion into Night Windʹs mouth.

  She Who Dreams showed her how to stroke his throat to assist swallowing, but still he choked and only about half the liquid went down. The Lipan woman seemed satisfied. After checking the poultice and probing the evil‐looking wound, she grunted and left Orlena to her vigil.

  The evening was cool, but Night Wind burned with fever. Orlena and She Who Dreams had been sewing a tepee of large, well‐tanned buffalo skins for the winter months ahead, but it was not yet finished and they resided still in a summer brush hut the Apache called a wickiup. Before, she had dreaded the lack of privacy and close confinement of sharing a tepee with Night Wind, but now . . . She sponged his face as he grew restless and began to murmur.

  At first the words were low, indistinct, spoken in Lipan; but then he began to use Spanish. Orlena bent low, both to restrain his thrashing and to hear what he said in the grip of this terrible nightmare.